


Cherchez le Diem, Carpe la Femme

by beetle



Series: Of Firsts and Forever [3]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Brooding, Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Failboats In Love, Fetish, Homemade Meals, Idiots in Love, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pizza, Post-Game(s), Reyder, Sara's not much smarter, Sexual Roleplay, The Right Advices, Vaginal Fingering, Vetra POV, Vetra is dense, absence makes the heart grow fonder, clothing fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 16:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10902792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Vetra works too much, travels too much, gets some good advice, and eats the worst meal ever prepared. Oh, and she may just discover what it means to be in love.





	Cherchez le Diem, Carpe la Femme

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set post-game, vague spoilers.

“ . . . and you’re _sure_ these prototype actuators’ll work for the _Tempest_ , Gil?” Vetra asked wearily, head leaning on her left hand while her right fiddled with datapads containing various requisition forms. “I mean, we’ve only got the word of a really flighty Angara who admits he knows next to nothing about engineering or physics. No point in spending the units to get these actuators if we’re just gonna wind up space-debris orbiting the Nexus, right?”

 

“Point,” Gil allowed, sounding just as weary as Vetra. Like her, he was so busy, that he’d taken to working even in his off-hours, even in his quarters. Vetra could hear the kids in the not-so-back-ground—Meri was singing at the top of her lungs, strident and off-key, barely one intelligible word amongst a slurry of toddler-gibberish; and Dian, still a babe-in-arms, was burbling happily, what sounded like: “Ba-ba! Ba-ba!”—and their other-father, Bailey, calmly telling Meri that it was _bath-time, sweetness, and bed-time, right after_. “But Dalran’s good people—you know that. He wouldn’t screw us over.”

 

“I do know that. But that doesn’t mean someone else wouldn’t screw _him_ over. He could be selling us a bill of goods and not even know it,” Vetra pointed out, eyeing the very requisition form from Gil that’d prompted this call. She leaned back in her chair—which wasn’t as comfortable as the one in her office on the Nexus, but more comfortable than the one in her office on the _Tempest_ —datapad in hand as she scrolled through the details again. She covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “I just don’t know, Gil. . . .”

 

“Alright, how ‘bout this, then—that’s right, Dian! That’s Daddy’s nose!—you sign off on it, but I put my John Hancock on the form, too. That way, if Scott has something to say about it, I’ll catch the flack? And if we explode upon leaving the Nexus . . . I’ll take the flack for that, too.”

 

Vetra snorted at the smile in Gil’s voice. “Gee, that really gives me peace of mind.”

 

“I knew it would—Bailey, love, could you take the baby for a moment? Gotta find that bloody form and sign it.”

 

“Sure, babe.”

 

There were rustling/shuffling sounds for a few minutes and, in the distance, a baby’s querulous wail followed by a toddler’s obnoxious singing. In the foreground, Gil swore to himself and muttered, until with a final: “Aha!” he apparently located the datapad he’d been searching for.

 

A minute later, forms co-signed and delivered to Scott’s inbox, Vetra and Gil were ringing off—“BYEEEEE, AUNTIE VETRA!!!!” Meri had screamed brightly, just before the call ended on Gil’s groan and Bailey’s laughter—though neither were likely done with work for the evening.

 

“Sleep well, kitten,” Vetra murmured, thinking of her sticky, cheerful, rather stubborn “niece.” Then, chuckling, she was immersing herself back in her work. Between the rote-nature of most of what she was doing, and the utter silence of her quarters in Sid’s absence—Vetra’s little sister was spending a few weeks in Kadara Port, with Yanos Lossarian, and though it’d only been forty hours since she’d gone, Vetra already missed her—she lost track of time. Didn’t even realize that the universe had continued to exist, outside of work, until the door to her quarters chimed, soft and discreet.

 

It was three chimes before Vetra really _noticed_ it, and six before she managed to successfully pull herself away from the exponentially multiplying datapads on her desk.

 

Shuffling out of the small storage room that’d been serving as her home-office since she’d been awoken, she stifled another yawn and crossed the Spartan living room. “Who is it?” she asked, touching the comm-button next to the door. The small screen above the button flared to life, showing a humanoid figure wearing a tan trench coat and a big, red baseball cap, head tilted down so it was impossible to make out who it was. But while one hand was shoved in the pocket of the trench coat, the other was balancing a rather greasy looking, flat box.

 

“Pizza delivery, ma’am,” a low, rasping, voice with a mottled accent—half-Salarian, half-Angara—declared, still not looking up at the peephole, as politeness would dictate. Vetra frowned.

 

“Uh . . . right. I think you have the wrong quarters, friend. Not only didn’t I order a pizza, but if I _eat_ pizza, the dairy-based components would put me in the Med-Bay.”

 

The person at Vetra’s door was silent for a few seconds, then squared their shoulders. “This is the Nyx residence, correct? You _are_ Vetra Nyx, correct?”

 

“I—yeah.”

 

“Then this’s your pie, ma’am, bought an’ paid for.”

 

“By whom?”

 

A shrug was the only reply. Vetra grumbled, rolling her eyes as she hit the unlock/open touchpad on the door. Likely, this was some weird prank of Sid’s—the other woman’s way of letting Vetra know that she was being thought of—and if that was the case, the only thing for it was to just _take_ the damn pizza, stick it in the fridge, and maybe give it to Liam in the morning. He _loved_ leftover pizza.

 

When the door slid open, Vetra was already keying in a units-transfer on her omnitool—just because Sid was playing pranks didn’t mean the poor delivery person shouldn’t get tipped for their trouble—and speaking around another yawn. “Thanks for the, uh, speedy delivery, I guess,” she said wryly. “Who’s this tip going to?”

 

“Actually,” the delivery person said in a voice that was suddenly _very_ familiar. Vetra’s head whipped up and she found herself staring into big, bright hazel eyes that were, for once, almost level with her own. A wicked, sin-red smile curved the most kissable lips in any galaxy. “I’ve got something for _you_ , Vetra Nyx,” Sara Ryder said a low, smoky tone that made Vetra shiver.

 

Then she was taking the pizza box Sara was shoving at her, and backing deeper into her living room with wide, surprised eyes. With a predatory stalk, Sara followed her in.

 

Smirking, she reached behind her to key in the lock-code for the door, waiting for it to whoosh shut then beep, before focusing fully on a still-stunned Vetra. She stalked a bit closer, nimble fingers undoing the belt of the trench coat like she was putting on a show.

 

Considering that Vetra was, as always, an appreciative audience, maybe Sara _was_ putting on a show.

 

It wasn’t long before Sara’s small hands were the only things holding the tan trench coat closed. She shrugged gracefully and the fabric slid down her bare, brown shoulders, to mid-bicep. Smirking still, red-red lips so full and glossy, Vetra’s mouth—which had gone dry—began to water, Sara struck a contrapposto, the bottom-right of the coat falling away to reveal one long, shapely leg, clad in thigh-high, scarlet suede boots. (Vetra was momentarily amazed Sara had been able to walk in them . . . the heels were _ridiculously_ high, to put petite _Sara_ at near-eye level with Vetra.)

 

“Whuh,” Vetra exhaled, then shook her head, unable to stop her eyes from darting between the smooth, flawless skin of Sara’s shoulder and the small area between knee and mid-thigh that’d been revealed. “What’s all this?”

 

Sara’s smirk turned secretive and sly, and for a few moments, she drew the trench coat tighter . . . then, it was a tan puddle at her stylishly-booted feet, leaving Sara standing before Vetra in a clinging, silken, thigh-length scarlet robe with a matching belt that was only loosely tied. The robe, itself, hugged the curves of Sara’s full breasts and generous hips, showcasing both to gape-worthy perfection.

 

“This is me realizing that I’ve been so busy with my head up the ass of that damn golden-world, that I haven’t seen my girlfriend in _three whole days_ ,” Sara said, gently kicking the trench coat away from her feet and standing with arms akimbo and right hip cocked, like the universe’s sexiest statue.

 

Well. Except for the stupid baseball cap.

 

Vetra drifted closer slowly, as if Sara was a dream that a too-sudden motion might dispel. Wide, inviting hazel eyes watched her progress, growing wider and dilating visibly as Vetra closed the distance between them to a few scant inches.

 

“Hmm. You aren’t the only one who’s been buried under a mountain of work,” Vetra apologized, reaching up with her pizza box-free hand to remove the cap. Said cap was absently tossed the way of the trench coat and Vetra ran her fingers through Sara’s long, fine braids, carding them lovingly. Sara leaned into the touch with a soft, pleased sigh, one that turned to throaty, approving chuckles as Vetra’s fingers brushed down Sara’s neck and collar, to the place where the edges of the robe barely met between Sara’s breasts. A gentle push from Vetra’s index talon nudged those edges even further apart, but she was careful to neither open nor shred the robe.

 

Instead, she brushed her finger across Sara’s chest, onto the silken, scarlet fabric, which was as soft as Sara’s actual skin, but in a different way. One that excited Vetra’s senses . . . made her want to wrap Sara entirely in silk and just _feel_ her, from head to toes. When her finger encountered Sara’s nipple, already slightly peaked under the sinuous fabric, Vetra made a soft, sighing sound that was almost a whimper, and when Sara inhaled, shaky and deep, Vetra cupped Sara’s breast in her hand. The lovely, familiar weight was rendered new and exotic by the silk that covered it—that both permitted and barred the access Vetra yearned for.

 

“How,” she huffed out, high and almost whistling, then cleared her throat and tried again. “How did you know?”

 

Sara’s right eyebrow crooked knowingly. “What? That Turians have a . . . _thing_ for Asari spider-silk?” Chuckling, Sara’s eyes fluttered half-shut as Vetra stroked and fondled her breast, and teased her nipple to a small, point under the vivid silk. “Let’s just say . . . I’ve done my research.”

 

“Hands-on research?” Vetra asked lightly, even as unaccustomed jealousy raged hot and fast through her entire being, like wildfire.

 

“More like . . . I’ve got varied taste in porn. And I’ve seen enough Turian stroke-vids to note some . . . commonalities to what Turians, in general, like on their partners. Silks and satins, suedes and velvets. The softer and more sensual, the better,” Sara added wryly. “Not that that in any way prepared me for the potency and the _divine_ _reality_ of having a Turian lover who loves softness. It’s been so . . . flattering and intoxicating, the way you’re obsessed with my body—my _skin_ . . . so, sometimes I forget that there are _other ways_ for me to be soft for you. All sorts of fun fabrics and textures to play with.”

 

Vetra’s eyes widened, and she nearly choked on her own realization and wonder as words tried to tumble out of her mouth faster than her brain and tongue could process them. Finally, she huffed again, an embarrassed little laugh, and leaned in to kiss Sara’s forehead, catching a sweet, musky whiff of her hair.

 

“You don’t have to go broke buying Asari spider-silk or Quarian velvet, just to give me something soft to touch. Your skin . . . Sara, _your skin_ is _all_ the softness I need. All the softness I _want_.” Vetra leaned back and caught a wondering smile on Sara’s face. “The silk is nice, but in the end . . . I just wanna be skin-to-skin with you.”

 

“In the end, yes. But we’re not _nearly_ _there_ , yet,” Sara murmured, that smile shifting back into a smirk. Then she took the pizza box—which Vetra had all but forgotten about—from Vetra’s hand and, with her other hand holding Vetra’s to her breast, backed them both toward the couch and coffee table.

 

The pizza got dropped on the coffee table, on top of some datapads Sid had left lying around—because Sid never put _anything_ away—and several old-fashioned remote controls to various gadgets. Then Vetra was swinging Sara up into her arms, both giggling as Vetra skirted the couch carefully, then kissed Sara all the way to the main bedroom.

 

#

 

“Well,” Sara huffed some indeterminate time later, as they lay on the floor mere steps from the neatly-made bed to which they hadn’t quite made it. Her voice was a bit hoarse—she was a _very_ vocal lover, Vetra had learned, and gauged how well she did her _own_ job in bed by how raspy and hoarse Sara sounded in the afterglow—and she still sounded a bit winded, even though they’d been lying quietly and catching their breaths for at least fifteen minutes.

 

Vetra, worn-out and half-asleep, hummed happily, absently. She was lying between Sara’s legs, her face pressed to the warm, firm plane of Sara’s stomach and abdomen. The tip of her right talon lazily, but ceaselessly circled Sara’s left nipple. In her haste, Vetra hadn’t even bothered to remove the gorgeous, silky, ultimately problematic robe; she’d merely shoved it open wide enough to cup, nuzzle, nibble, and kiss Sara’s breasts.

 

And so, Sara still—mostly—wore the beautiful, slippery, scarlet robe. Mostly. The belt was barely doing its job and the lower half was entirely askew. But Vetra wasn’t complaining. She liked the idea of easy access, even if she was too tired to take advantage of it.

 

“So . . . any other ideas for what you want me to wear while you ravish me?” Sara finally asked, when the blissed-out silence had spun between them, and Vetra was more asleep than awake.

 

“Mm?”

 

Sara chuckled throatily at Vetra’s barely-conscious interrogative. “Well . . . if you’re not too particular . . . I _do_ have this slinky, white vinyl cat-suit . . . it’s not exactly soft, but . . . it’s very slippery. And I’ve been told my ass looks _great_ in vinyl.”

 

“Your ass looks great in _everything_ , Ryder. Especially my hands,” Vetra mused wistfully. Sara giggled and her fingers drifted from their stroking of Vetra’s bicep, up to her right cheek and mandible. The light, fond touches made Vetra practically purr and turn her face into Sara’s abdomen, laying small kisses across it. Sara—who denied being ticklish—giggled again, squirming. Then, the squirming intensified as Vetra, still barely-awake, aimed her kisses slowly, but decidedly south. Her hand left Sara’s breast reluctantly, but obediently, following suit to trail lightly down the other woman’s soft, warm body, not stopping until it was splayed on her inner left thigh . . . and pushing it outward.

 

The noises Sara—already over-sensitized from the three orgasms that’d preceded this busy afterglow—made while Vetra explored and worshiped her with tender fingers and languid tongue, were incredible: desperate and wanton, sacred and profane.

 

“Vinyl sounds good,” Vetra murmured, kissing soft, slightly frizzy pubic hair before sitting up a bit to stare up the length of Sara’s shaking, lightly-sheened body. The fine, sable braids were sprayed all around her head on Vetra’s grey carpet, the silken robe finally open and framing Sara’s body. Vetra sighed, drinking in all this beauty on display, both humbled and smug that it was only for _her_.

 

(Well . . . they hadn’t actually _had_ the mutual exclusivity-discussion, yet, but Vetra certainly wasn’t seeing anyone else. And she had a strong feeling that neither was Sara.)

 

Vetra smiled, slow and dangerous. “Vinyl sounds _great_ , in fact. Only. . . .”

 

It took a minute for Sara’s brain to come back from the place Vetra’s fingers and tongue had sent it, but when it returned, Sara opened her dazed, dilated eyes and blinked up at Vetra with a mixture of hunger, awe, and vulnerability that Vetra was seeing from the other woman more and more often as time went on. And not even mostly when they were engaged in sexual activity.

 

“Only?” Sara breathed, right hand reaching out for Vetra’s free left one, the other taking over tracing teasing circles around her own nipple—partly, Vetra knew, as stimulation, but mostly because _Sara knew_ that Vetra _loved_ to watch her pleasure herself, even in small ways.

 

Taking the offered hand and linking their fingers, Vetra smirked, holding up the hand that’d been resting, once more, on Sara’s inner thigh. “These talons ain’t just for show, y’know? Sooooo . . . I’m thinking . . . you _put on_ the vinyl, but _I remove it_. Strip. By. Strip.”

 

Sara’s eyes widened and she, too, began to smile.

 

“You’re just . . . the best,” the Pathfinder said kind of dreamily, that fond-soft-amazed look in her pretty eyes and on her pretty face again. Chuckling, Vetra winked, then reapplied herself to her favorite task.

 

“You don’t know the _half_ of it, Ryder . . . but you’re about to find out.”

 

#

 

“So . . . I take it all this intense, love-struck brooding means it’s . . . serious?”

 

Startled, Vetra fumbled her half-empty bottle of Drossix Blue and tore her gaze away from her yards-distant, laughing lover and said lover’s also-laughing brother. She found herself gazing down into the amused, olive-colored eyes of Reyes Vidal.

 

Like most of the humans present in Nexus’s Main Arboretum for the Meridian Eve Barbeque, he was dressed in garish, loud, loose clothing: a Hawaiian shirt; a clean, grey t-shirt under that; Madras shorts, and bright-green sandals. But, as ever, his stylish undercut was impeccable. Vetra had no doubt that the smuggler was armed, as well.

 

“Uh,” she said, mandibles fluttering in consternation as she fought not to automatically go back to staring holes into Sara Ryder. Besides being creepy, it was also rude. Not that that’d stopped her, lately. “What?”

 

Reyes chuckled, nodding off toward their significant others. “About seven months into my relationship with Scott, _someone_ was . . . kind enough to point out to me that not only did I stare at Scott the way _you_ stare at Sara—which is to say in a manner that is utterly lost and besotted . . . _beyond_ distracted—but that he stared at me the same way, when he was certain _I_ wasn’t looking.” Pausing to glance over at his husband, a fiercely loving and possessive smile graced Reyes’s infamous mouth. Then he looked back at Vetra. “Anyway, yes. When _that person_ pointed out this interesting fact, you know what I did, next?”

 

Mandibles outright twitching, now, Vetra swallowed around a dry, ticking throat and sipped her now-warm Drossix Blue. She’d been nursing it since the beginning of the Barbeque. “What did you do next, Reyes?” she asked, knowing he’d tell her, anyway. After all, he was a man who couldn’t resist spilling secrets and telling intriguing maybe-truths.

 

Reyes smirked and clinked his bottle of Heinekin Classic with her Drossix Blue. “I . . . started shopping for an engagement ring.”

 

Vetra’s mouth dropped open, her mandibles gone wide in absolute shock. “But—but—Sara and I—we—I mean—” looking down at her hand around the bottle, Vetra sighed and shook her head. “I can’t deny the way I look at her. I mean, have you _seen_ her? Have you _met_ her?” Snorting, she snuck another glance at her lover. Sara was laughing once more at something Scott had said, head tilted back, face shining. Like so many, the Ryder twins were sitting on a patch of emerald-green grass that carpeted the massive Main Arboretum. Beams of artificial sunlight burnished the dark, bare skin of Sara’s arms, shoulders and legs, dressed as she was in a coral-colored tube-top and white short-shorts. Her braids hung and swung down her back and around her arms, and her delicate feet were as bare as the legs tucked up under her. A small pair of neglected brown sandals lay in the grass between her knees and Scott’s.

 

Unable to help the sigh that gusted out of her, Vetra turned back to Reyes, catching a knowing look on his too-shrewd face. “She’s . . . _everything_ , to me. Okay? Is _that_ what you wanna hear? It’s not like I’ve hidden it.”

 

His brows lifting, Reyes made a noncommittal sound. “Perhaps. But even for a human who’s so obviously enamored of Turians, Turians can be . . . difficult to read.”

 

“Sara’d have to be blind and dumb not to notice how I look at her. And she’s neither,” Vetra said almost ruefully. “It’s not even that I _choose_ not to hide how I feel. It’s that I _can’t_.”

 

“Then, I’d say you two are well-matched.”

 

Vetra frowned, confused, but this time, Reyes was clearly in the mood to make her _ask_ for enlightenment. “Whaddaya mean?”

 

Snorting, he smirked again. “Well, don’t look now—or _do_ —but you’re not the _only_ one who can’t hide how she feels about her dense, unobservant lover.”

 

Blinking blankly, Vetra then followed Reyes’s gaze back to the Ryder twins, and found two pairs of hazel eyes on them.

 

No, on _her_.

 

Scott was, as usual, smiling, wide and white, his dark, square face also glowing in the artificial light, his fluffy-curly hair—Vetra was pretty sure the style was called an _afra_ —surrounding his head like a jet corona. He waved at them, relaxed and lazy, summer-y and slightly ridiculous in his tie-dyed t-shirt, cargo shorts, and black sandals and socks. Across from him Sara was simply staring at Vetra with wide, anxious, confused eyes . . . more naked and hopeful than any Vetra had ever seen aimed at _her_.

 

In fact, the last time she’d seen a gaze so broken-open and soul-vulnerable aimed at _anyone_ , she’d wound up not only clueing in the _subject_ of that gaze to how lucky he was, but giving that subject an _epic_ shovel-speech.

 

And, less than two months later, the couple in question had been married.

 

Now, a year after Vetra had bought Reyes Vidal a clue, Vetra’s face—though not remotely human—felt much the way Reyes’s face had _looked_ that memorable night at _Tartarus_. The night Vetra had inadvertently handed the man the key to his own happily-ever-after. . . .

 

Meanwhile, under Vetra’s intent gaze, Sara was flushing so deeply, it actually showed up on her mocha-dark cheeks. Then the other woman hurriedly looked down and away, a sable curtain of braids obscuring her face.

 

Vetra, too, was quick to look away, her mind and heart racing with excitement, anxiety, and confusion. After a minute of total, system-wide panic, her being resounded with one incredulous thought:

 

 _She . . . she feels the_ same _? Or at least_ something? _For_ me? _What do I even_ do _with that? I have to do_ something _, right? If she feels for me even a_ fraction _of what I feel for_ her. . . .

 

When she blinked at him, Reyes nodded, as if reading her mind. “Exactly,” he said, winking. “Even if I didn’t have a vested interest in my sister-in-law’s happiness and even if I didn’t believe in repaying debts owed . . . I’m a romantic at heart.” Making a face Vetra had no doubt he considered charming, he shrugged. “And a sucker for a happy ending. So, _cherchez la femme_ —not to mention _carpe diem!_ —while the sun still shines, eh?”

 

“ _Huh_?”

 

With a chuckle and another wink, Reyes Vidal ambled off toward his husband, acknowledging hails and waves along the way, and leaving Vetra to brood over her flat Drossix Blue. Brood, and wish she had the courage to go _cherchez le diem_ or _carpe la femme_ the sort of ending Reyes was such a sucker for.

 

#

 

Exactly on time for their first dinner-date together since the _Tempest_ arrived back at the Nexus after six weeks spent in the field, Vetra—dressed in her best grey and navy suit—let herself into Sara Ryder’s quarters, only to be greeted by chaos.

 

The scent of scorched teumilt permeated the air, along with what smelled like an attempt at traditional Turian spiced aysik—reeking of both blood and char—and solva greens that were a touch rancid if they were smelling so _strongly_. . . .

 

A light fug of smoke hung near the ceiling, which explained the annoying, persistent whine of Sara’s smoke-alarm.

 

“Sara?” Vetra called, mildly concerned as she navigated the smoky living room, toward the even smokier kitchen. She could hear Sara swearing blisteringly, and the crash of pans and a yelp. “Are you okay?”

 

“I’m—ah, fuckity-crap! SAM! Kill the smoke-alarm, will ya?—I’m great, hon! C’mon in, and have a seat at the table! Dinner will be served momentarily!” Sara called with strained stridence, half-in the sudden silence as SAM shut off the whining alarm.

 

Vetra, waving away smoke, passed the dining nook and hovered reluctantly just outside the kitchen. She could see Sara doing battle with _actual flames,_ wielding a CO2 extinguisher. “Uh . . . you don’t look like you’re doin’ so great. . . .”

 

“Ah, um.” Sara put out a persistent flame, swore when it leapt back up, then sprayed it into submission, once more. For a good ten seconds, too, until she was sure it was out, this time.

 

Then she tossed the extinguisher on the narrow counter between modest kitchen and dining nook, wiped her brow and heaved a tired sigh, then looked at Vetra. She was all disheveled braid-upsweep and sweaty face; stained, yellow apron and askew, Asari-style, indigo cocktail-dress (strapless, no doubt because _Vetra_ liked Sara’s soft, bare shoulders and _Sara knew_ Vetra liked her soft, bare shoulders). She looked harried and frazzled, tired and sulky.

 

She _looked_. . . .

 

“Well? Why aren’t you sitting? Or are you planning on eating standing up?” Sara demanded, frowning. Vetra blinked at the disaster area that was Sara’s usually unused kitchen—really, _neither_ of them could cook worth a damn, and ordered out ninety-eight percent of the time—then met Sara’s stony, determined gaze with a pleasantly bland one of her own.

 

“I was just about to sit down, Sara. If you don’t need any help, that is. Mm . . . smells good,” she lied, then drifted to the nook to seat herself and wait patiently for her doom.

 

It came sooner than she would’ve liked. Within minutes, the table was set, the . . . food . . . served. Sara seated herself across from Vetra with excited, glowing eyes and an accomplished look on her damp face.

 

“Surprise!” she exclaimed, just a bit uncertainly, leaning over to peck Vetra’s lips. “I badgered Sid for your favorite traditional Turian dinner, then dug up the recipe in the Nexus archives! Ta-da!”

 

Vetra smiled, stifling a sigh that had surprisingly little to do with the frightening repast quivering in platters and bowls between them, and almost everything to do with the hopeful, eager innocence shining from Sara’s face. “I love it,” she declared, _actually_ sighing when Sara lit-up at the praise like a small sun.

 

 _This_ , Vetra knew, suddenly. _This is what it is to be in love_.

 

“Oh! I’m so glad! I was so sure I’d messed it up! Especially the aysik.” Sara frowned worriedly down at the main dish. “I don’t think it’s supposed to catch fire, like that. . . .”

 

“Eh. Minutiae,” Vetra reassured her girlfriend, brushing a glob of solidifying CO2 off a gelid bit of aysik, then wiped her fingers on a blue, cloth napkin. “What matters is, this is _wonderful_ , Sara, and . . . I missed you.”

 

Sara’s gaze did that _thing_ . . . that warm-soft-vulnerable thing it did so often, lately, and she covered Vetra’s hand with her own.

 

“I missed you, too, baby.” Smiling so sweetly and happily, Vetra was quite certain she’d do anything and everything in her power to keep that smile right where it was, Sara sighed and nudged the bowl of aysik closer to Vetra. “Well? Eat up! Before it hardens!”

 

Shuddering, but already steeling herself for what was to be _the worst_ meal of her life, Vetra smiled gamely, and did as she was bidden.

 

And it _was the worst_. Without exaggeration or hyperbole, it was . . . almost nightmarish. Vetra, herself, was amazed that she not only ate, but _kept down_ dinner for as long as she did. Which wasn’t very. In fact, the shakes started shortly after they’d moved on from dessert—the less said about the poached coomri figs, the better—to _dessert_.

 

They were on the couch in the living room, and Sara, straddling Vetra’s thighs, was also exploring Vetra’s throat and chest with burning kisses and licks while she snaked her fever-hot hand down into Vetra’s trousers. Vetra had managed to get up under the back of the frilly, complicated cocktail-dress to discover that Sara wasn’t wearing panties.

 

All of which was to say . . . the evening had gotten and was getting _infinitely_ better.

 

“You’re so _hot_ ,” Vetra gasped as she gently teased Sara’s slick, soft . . . even-warmer-than-usual labia with fingers that tremored minutely. Then she shuddered as a fit of intense trembling overtook her chilled body. “Are you . . . running a fever?”

 

Frowning, Sara sat up to look at Vetra, worry writ large on her pretty face. “Uh, _nooooo_ . . . you’re actually . . . kinda . . . clammy and cold. . . .”

 

Vetra blinked up at the suddenly trebled and blurry human straddling her. “Really? I—” and then, the dry heaves started.

 

They didn’t _stay dry_ for long. But thankfully, by that point, Sara had called Lexi. Out of a sound sleep, no less. The Asari doctor was thrilled, to put it delicately.

 

But the smile on Sara’s face while Vetra had choked down the scorched, bitter teumilt; half-charred/half-raw spiced aysik; borderline-moldering solva greens, and mushy, over-ripe coomri figs, was entirely worth it (vomiting, cold-sweats, shakes, fainting spell, and eventual visit from an unamused Lexi notwithstanding).

 

Even though Sara was all tears and apologies, concerned coos and cossetting while Lexi treated Vetra with a round of quick-acting antibiotics, then castigated them both _soundly_ for being dunderheads, Vetra, for some reason, couldn’t stop grinning. Except for the times she was puking up the last of Sara’s romantic, homemade dinner into a handy bucket.

 

When Lexi finally left, with a promise to check in on Vetra in the morning, Sara undressed, and climbed into bed with Vetra, holding her tight through the shakes and the once-more-dry heaves. Through the sweats and the dizziness. She sang Vetra soothing Asari lullabies, Quarian ballads, and even an obscure, old Earth standard in her strong, melodic voice:

 

> [Been a while since I felt this way about someone, ](https://youtu.be/gmX-ceF-N1k)  
>  [ I'd really, really like to know you, more.](https://youtu.be/gmX-ceF-N1k)
> 
> [Oh, oh, know you, more. . . .](https://youtu.be/gmX-ceF-N1k)  
>    
>  [ Oh, your eyes, they sing a song to me,](https://youtu.be/gmX-ceF-N1k)  
>  [ I'd really, really like to go to it, oh, go, oh. . . .](https://youtu.be/gmX-ceF-N1k)  
>    
>  [ And I will, oh, open my heart](https://youtu.be/gmX-ceF-N1k)  
>  [ And I will, oh, only for you. . . .](https://youtu.be/gmX-ceF-N1k)

 

Sara sang until her voice was little more than a harsh whisper, and Vetra had slowly drifted into a thin, but welcome sleep. A sleep throughout which Sara held her tight, and kept her safe and warm.

 

And the next day, when Lexi left after her promised check-up visit, and Sara had gone off to work reluctantly—with another apology, a stern order to stay in bed, and a sweet, lingering kiss good-bye—Vetra spent the _rest_ of that day until Sara came home (early), on her datapad, researching engagement rings . . . in human-sizes.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Let's hang on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


End file.
